Annie was still staring at me. Not calmly. No longer detached. Her wide eyes flickered over my face, back and forth, a rapid movement that I found vaguely unsettling.
I forced myself to sit still.
“You may not believe me,” I whispered. “Hell, you may immediately call for a nurse to toss me out of your room just for coming here tonight. But if there’s even a chance you might be able to help me understand?—”
I never finished the rest of my sentence. Before I could say another word, Annie Thurman reached out and grabbed my hand so hard, my bones were nearly crushed.
With an explosion of purple sparks, she pulled me under.
Hopscotch on pavement.
Pink sidewalk chalk.
Mother yells, Father sighs.
White linen tablecloth.
Annie Thurman’s mind wasn’t like any other mind I’d ever been inside. Most visions came as a singular memory; one crystallized moment in time. They played out like a motion picture before my eyes.
Annie’s thoughts were not a movie; they were a medley. An ever-changing, ever-shifting montage of thoughts and emotions, memories and fragments. They rushed at me in a blur, morphing so fast I could barely make out what I was seeing before another wave of purple sparks dissolved them into something else.
Woods in the dark.
Wind in the trees.
A cry in the night.
Little girl lost.
It was like the film reel had been cut apart and spliced back together all out of order. Not one cohesive vision, but a jumbled stream of them.
A marsh bird calls.
Floors creak underfoot.
Two eyes in the corner.
Stay quiet, don’t speak.
One after another, they rocked through me, tearing at my mind until it threatened to shred under the pressure.
Morning breaks bright.
Toads croak in the mud.
A slippery climb.
Rusted railroad tracks.
Finally, I emerged from her head with a ragged gasp that burst from my throat. I didn’t know how much time had passed. The hollow ache in my bones suggested years, but I knew it had only been seconds. Annie was looking at me with that same intent look as before — her empty eyes shifting back and forth.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
I tried to smile at her as I straightened from my slumped position against the back of the chair. My lips felt numb. My whole body did. Exhaustion battered at my temples, spurring a monster of a migraine to life.
I’d never felt so tired. Not in all my life. Not even when I was on television, having daily visions at my uncle’s command.